


Sky Full of Song

by elektratios



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bittersweet, Bittersweet Ending, Break Up, Emotional Hurt, Feelings, Footnotes, Getting Back Together, Happy Ending, Hopeful Ending, Jealousy, M/M, Minor Original Character(s), Post-Break Up, Pre-Almost Apocalypse (Good Omens), Pre-Canon, Self-Hatred, Sort Of, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, crowley is a bit petty but azi deserves it, no really this is angsty, this is dramatic and sad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-22
Updated: 2019-05-22
Packaged: 2020-03-09 19:21:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,682
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18923431
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elektratios/pseuds/elektratios
Summary: “I’m afraid,” Aziraphale began softly, “that I’ve been rather foolish.”





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Beings of Love](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18862096) by [soongtypeprincess](https://archiveofourown.org/users/soongtypeprincess/pseuds/soongtypeprincess). 



> Okay this is a spin off from Chapter 1 and 2 of [ soongtypeprincess](https://archiveofourown.org/users/soongtypeprincess/pseuds/soongtypeprincess)'s [Beings of Love](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18862096/chapters/44768428#workskin) (and diverges from there). You really need to read that first to understand what's happening here!
> 
> I am a sucker for angst and the cliffhanger of Chapter 2 sent me down an angsty rabbit-hole, and this is the result. Feel free to scream at me in the comments :) Thanks to soongtypeprincess for letting me play around in this universe!
> 
> Title is Sky Full of Song by Florence + the Machine
> 
> Disclaimer: I don't know anything about wine

The book stared at Crowley. Well, it didn’t literally stare. If the book had eyes and stared at Crowley rather than Crowley staring at _it_ then we’d all be living in a very different world in which books were sentient and would probably share knowledge through lectures and stern gazes rather than passively with a cup of tea and Bach playing softly through a vintage radio. And that would be a strange world indeed. However Crowley _felt_ as if the book was staring at him. Everything else in the room had ceased to exist – the bed he was sitting on felt ethereal, the blackened and curled petals of the begonia rotting on the dresser crumbled away, and the book was anchored in the sole beam of light permitted through the fronds of the plant blocking Crowley’s bedroom window.

If this book suddenly decided to live in an alternate timeline in which books _were_ sentient it would probably sniff haughtily at Crowley and then spontaneously combust from righteousness after giving him a good smiting. (1) As it was though, the bible sat judgementally on Crowley’s floor where he’d unceremoniously dropped it while clearing out his wardrobe that morning. This meant Crowley was faced with a decision. Of course there was the Right Thing To Do. The Right Thing To Do would be to gently pack up the bible in protective wrappings and deliver it personally to Aziraphale’s shop along with a few other odds and ends of the angel’s which had intermingled with Crowley’s possessions over the years. Then of course there was the Wrong But Much Less Intimidating Thing To Do, which was to pretend he’d simply never found it and return it to the depths of the wardrobe. Then of course there was the Thing That Crowley Was In Absolutely No Circumstances Contemplating, which was to stare at the bible and feel sorry for himself for another half hour before secreting it away in the side table drawer in case of further self-pity sessions. He felt himself drop another notch in the bible’s esteem. 

(1: And after giving him a long-winded and most likely fairly boring lecture on vices and virtues and sins and vile demonic behaviour, etcetera, etcetera.)

“Oh Lord, give me strength.” Crowley muttered sarcastically, deciding to forgo the protective wrapping and toss the bible into the box of Aziraphale’s knickknacks. The heavy binding smacked against a porcelain Ming teacup Aziraphale had purchased back in the 15th century, chipping the delicate material. Grumbling, Crowley flicked his fingers to repair it, reasoning that since the angel didn’t witness the break then it wouldn’t sour the item for him in the future. Hauling the box up, Crowley muttered a few cursory threats to his window plant as he left, causing it to extend its fronds fearfully and block out the remainder of the afternoon light. The bedroom was shrouded in shadow.

The box made a satisfying thump when Crowley tossed it into the backseat of the Bentley. He steadfastly refused to acknowledge his anxiety about seeing Aziraphale, especially after the angel had expressly told him not to even to think about him ever again, let alone drive back to his shop, his house, where he lived and read and did his taxes and pored over books of prophecies and left countless mugs of stone cold cocoa over every surface. Crowley’s fingers were white on the steering wheel as he sharply pulled out onto the road and through Mayfair towards A.Z. Fell and Co. He whipped a hand out to stick a tape in the Blaupunkt, hoping for anything to cover the roaring of the car through London traffic and distract him from the pressure of the situation.

_“Insanity laughs under pressure we’re breaking-_  
_Why can’t we give ourselves one more chance?_  
_Why can’t we give love-“_

The Blaupunkt sparked and sputtered in a blast of smoke as Brahms’ _Under Pressure_ squealed through the frazzled circuit board. 

-

As expected at 5pm on a Monday evening, A.Z. Fell and Co. was firmly closed up for the day. The door was shut and the sign in the window aggressively frightened any late customers to scurry onwards through Soho and forget about any rare books they may or may not have wanted. The shop looked so utterly ordinary in fact, that the utter ordinariness of it struck Crowley as a kind of boast. The shop seemed to gloat at him. It was evidence that the world was turning as normal, that Aziraphale opened and shut his shop, and warded away customers, and closed early on a Monday to settle down with a new tome and sip a glass of a nicely aged Cabernet Sauvignon. Only this time Crowley wasn’t lounging on his sofa but instead was face to face with the sign that loudly proclaimed CLOSED, underscored with a series of struck out and inaccurate opening times. 

Only when Crowley determinedly ignored the sign and shouldered his way into the shop (2) was he faced with the horrifying realisation that on this Monday Aziraphale was not settling down with a large tome and a nicely aged Cabernet Sauvignon. He wasn’t even settling down with a small pamphlet and an adequate Merlot. Instead of pages, his hands were full of another person’s hands and the curve of a cheek. And instead of a crystal wine glass, his lips were pressed against another pair of lips. And instead of sitting in his armchair in the back room, he was leaning over the desk on the shop floor, crumpling the scattered receipts from the till under his weight. And on the other side of the desk, closest to Crowley, was none other than a certain Mr. Graves, conspicuously casually dressed and without his customary case full of wares for an opportunistic rare bookseller.

(2: The door was unlocked, of course, as he didn’t expect anything else.)

“Crowley!” Aziraphale jumped back, knocking a pile of coin bags to the floor. (3) He hurriedly knelt to snatch them up which had the dual effect of hiding his quickly reddening face and giving him a moment to decide whether to be angry at Crowley or contrite and apologetic for his own actions weeks before. 

(3: He meticulously cashed up every day despite only making a sale on average of once a week, and as such the coin bags had been unopened for as long as Crowley could remember. He was sure there were Guineas floating around amongst the spare pounds in the back room.)

Meanwhile Crowley had shut his mouth which had fallen open in anger and startlement at the sight of Aziraphale _engaging_ with another in that way, - a _human_ of all things, with a fragile, fallible body and fixed lifespan- and snidely asked “Got something special to sell today, then, Mr. Graves?” He curled his lips into a sneer, looking the human up and down unkindly and letting the roiling anger and jealousy (4) writhe in his gut and blaze through his eyes with such force that the human cowered even with the dark shield of Crowley’s glasses between them. 

(4: And self-pity.)

In comparison though, Aziraphale fumed steadily with righteous anger as he emerged from under the desk, back straight and proud and lips twisted in dislike. “What are you doing here, Crowley? I strictly instructed you never to return here! Leave immediately or I shall be forced to make you!”

“Don't worry, angel.” The endearment tasted sour on his tongue. “I’m just here to drop off a few of your things.” The verb ‘drop’ was accompanied by the corresponding action, and this time when the teacup shattered Crowley didn’t bother to repair it, in fact he cracked the cup in a few more places just to be sure the damage was thorough. “I didn’t realise you had _plans_ this evening.”

“What I do in my personal life is none of your concern!”

Crowley properly looked at Aziraphale then, at the furious creases across his forehead and the red flush glaring from his cheeks, his kiss swollen lips and his piercing blue eyes stabbing through Crowley and deflating his ire like a punctured balloon. “Yes angel, you’ve made that very clear.” There was a tense silence, punctuated only by Graves’ flustered breaths as he tried to compose himself in a situation he couldn’t possibly process. “I…” Crowley began. “I’m moving. Away. I’m going to-“

“Stop. Don’t say anything more. Just leave.” 

Crowley swallowed. He swallowed down the surge of desperation and longing that threatened to tear up through his throat, and he dug his nails into his palms instead, drawing blood. He locked his anger in his jaw, tense and twitching as he ground his teeth. His eyes smarted with grief but his sunglasses hid them from view, and he didn’t let the tears fall. 

He jerked chin in the affirmative, turned on his heel, and left.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've taken liberties with technology in the time period so just call it artistic license. 
> 
> Disclaimers: I don't know anything about horticulture or Edinburgh. Especially Edinburgh.

**One year later**

 

Hell were _not_ going to be happy. He’d lost his touch. No matter what he seemed to do, the citizens of Edinburgh didn’t _want_ to be tempted. Crowley irritably pondered the results of his last scheme as he zoomed about the city in his Bentley in an attempt to burn off his frustration. He’d spent months interfering with the construction of new data networks, sneakily relocating planned cell towers by a metre here or there, so that signals would be obstructed by a tree intimidated into place, or just too far out of reach for a good 15% of a district’s population to receive any signal at all. People should have been rioting. There should be people up in arms at telephone stores and clogging up customer services from their landlines, there should have been a knock on effect of missed communications and cancelled plans and interrupted phone calls. Furthermore, this should have led to an increase in low-level crime from the resulting isolation and anti-social behaviour. But it seemed that the people of Edinburgh just simply _didn’t care._

Thankfully, he thought, he might be able to get away with it, with the right spin. Low-level crime rates had stayed exactly the same in the city since his interference, but Hastur was likely too ignorant to understand the importance of the role of telephone networks in society anyway, let alone analyse the correlations of crime statistics and faulty cell towers. 

Crowley sighed, put his foot down, and floored it. 

He hadn’t slept in eight months.

In fact, Crowley hadn’t _relaxed_ in eight months.

Frustration, anger, and jealousy all thrummed through his veins and under his skin, itching at the tips of his fingers and toes and aching to be released in elaborate temptations and demonic schemes. The ducks in the ponds up here were far less lucky than the St James’ ducks in London. Everyone was far less fortunate without Aziraphale to keep him in check. Or at least that’s how he justified it to himself. The stubborn, self-destructive side of him concurred that he was a demon, a vile creature bent on temptation and sin, so why not accept his true nature? 

The first few months in Edinburgh he’d spent grieving. He’d fought an internal battle, about nature versus nurture, about love and lust, and about Aziraphale, always about Aziraphale. But it was far less satisfying to have these arguments with the twisted, wounded parts of himself. Crowley would have given anything in those months to hear Aziraphale snipe back at him, even to hear him declare with absolute certainty that demons were evil through and through, and utterly condemned. 

That was when the bargaining started.

Crowley would spend days pacing his new flat, pacing the parks, pacing the small cobbled streets of Edinburgh, and arguing with himself; _surely_ he should contact Aziraphale? Just briefly? The angel _couldn’t_ have meant that he didn’t want to know where Crowley was. Of course, they’d gone longer stretches of time without keeping tabs on each other in the past but it had been different then, they hadn’t been _involved_ then. 

But now… 

Aziraphale didn’t love Graves. He couldn’t! How could he even consider having a _relationship_ with a human being? How could they connect on even the most basic level with such wildly different world views? Graves was a _child_ in comparison to Aziraphale! To him angels and demons and Up There and Down There were just theories, concepts. He would only have a few more _decades_ in him if he was lucky, but Aziraphale, _Aziraphale_ was an immortal angel, a Divine entity with millennia worth of knowledge and wisdom and experience. But then why would Aziraphale pursue a relationship knowing this? Just to hurt Crowley? Did he kiss the human in an attempt to move on from Crowley? Crowley wondered if they were still together, a year on. He wondered if Heaven had had anything to say about the relationship, or if they’d ever been in touch about his own relations with the angel, as Aziraphale had so gravely feared. He wondered if Aziraphale had ever kissed the human so sweetly, if he’d taken him upstairs and- 

Crowley felt sick. 

Of course, perhaps Graves loved Aziraphale. And perhaps Aziraphale could believe him. 

And so, four months of sleeping and pacing and bargaining later, Crowley had turned to anger. If Aziraphale truly believed that he was condemned, a vile fiend made of nothing but sin, unable to understand even the idea of love, a beast…then that’s what he would be. He threw himself into his work. Along with his grander schemes he reverted back to old school temptations, manipulating priests and civilians alike with a vigour that Hell would have approved of, if they’d bothered to get in touch. Of course, Hell getting in touch was _not_ ideal right at the moment, not until he’d sorted out whatever was wrong with his telephone scheme. 

Crowley abruptly pulled over at his local garden centre on the outskirts of the city. When he wasn’t out tempting and sinning and scheming he’d been cultivating a rather nice plot of land in the style of Monet’s gardens at Giverny. Impressionism had never really been his speed, but he’d found that immersing himself so fully in his garden (5) was almost inspiring him to take up painting and so he wanted an even more verdant landscape for when the inspiration struck. Crowley had also found that the garden was the only place he could go on the days that his temptations had left a sour taste in his mouth or an ache in his gut. But he didn’t think about those days, and he _made sure_ the plants didn’t take advantage of them either. 

(5: And cultivating a thoroughly fearful atmosphere to encourage unnaturally speedy growth.)

It was when he was near the checkout that it happened. His trolley was positively overflowing with flowers; wisteria to twist and warp into beautiful arches, pansies to line the paths with their desolate, screaming faces, and great blood-red tulips to spatter the lush green river banks. Crowley was visualising his garden, vibrant colours springing out of the green lawns, hanging vines and willow trees bowing down to the river in supplication. And a figure appeared in this divine image, bright and joyful, cherubic cheeks, and a prim posture. And that’s when Crowley realised that the figure was not in his garden, but next to him, in a garden centre in Edinburgh, delicately stroking the petal of a particularly mortified pansy. 

Aziraphale.

Crowley stared.

He stared some more.

Aziraphale’s joyful smile slipped a bit and his eyelashes fluttered softly as he dropped his gaze to the ground. His fingers slipped gently from the petal and to his side. 

Crowley gaped like a fish. His mouth was open in a horrifying parody of that moment a year ago when he walked in on Aziraphale and the human _kissing._ He couldn’t believe what his eyes were seeing for a moment, and he shakily adjusted his sunglasses, pushing them up his nose even though he knew, _he knew_ that they weren’t a prescription and it wouldn’t make a damn bit of difference to whether _who was standing in front of him_ was actually there. 

“I’m afraid,” Aziraphale began softly, “that I’ve been rather foolish.”

Crowley paused. Aziraphale was there. He was there, in front of him, for the first time in a year. In a garden centre on the outskirts of Edinburgh. Looking forlornly at a pansy. Crowley felt an alarming urge to laugh. 

“I think I owe you an apology, my dear boy.” At this Aziraphale looked up and met Crowley’s eyes, (6) and the earnestness in them, the pure sincerity and sadness in them…it _infuriated_ Crowley! How dare he! How could he have the gall to be sincere and earnest and _devastated_ , and say that he owed Crowley an _apology_ , after a year with no contact, after turning up in Crowley’s _space_ out of the blue, after shacking up with a human and effectively kicking Crowley out of his life? 

(6: Or rather, his sunglasses lenses.)

Crowley’s lips curled and his voice was cold. “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean,” he said icily, voice level despite the quaver he could feel building in his throat. 

“My dear…” Aziraphale said, and his voice was urgent, “I implore you; please hear me out!”

And it was petty; Go-, Sa-, _Whoever_ , Crowley knew it was _petty_ , but he simply replied; “You must have me mistaken for someone else. I have no idea who you are.” 

At this Aziraphale flinched, but he soon regained his composure and drew himself up to his full height, (7) literally rising to the challenge, and confidently extending his hand as if daring Crowley to refuse it. “The name is Aziraphale,” he began, well within the earshot of the cashier Crowley was paying, and apparently not caring about it. “I’m an Angel, specifically the Guardian of the Eastern Gate of Eden. I wielded the flaming sword and passed it to Adam and Eve after the Fall. My assignment is to live amongst humans on Earth, guarding them and bringing blessings.” He voice turned softer and he insinuated himself further into Crowley’s space, demanding his attention. “But most of all, my dear, I am seeking a chance for forgiveness for a most terrible transgression against the one who is most dear to my heart.”

(7: This rather failed to make an impression on Crowley, as Aziraphale was still considerably shorter than the demon, but the sentiment was clear.)

Crowley could have wept. Part of him wanted to lean forward and take the angel’s face into his hands and cradle him, to press a sweet kiss to his forehead and forgive him over and over until he had no more forgiveness left. 

The louder, angrier part of him wanted to see Aziraphale flinch again, to impart a small portion of the heartbreak Crowley had suffered upon him.

He ignored Aziraphale’s hand.

“The name is Crawly” he responded in kind, voice still like ice, “I’m the snake that manipulated my way past the gates of Eden and tempted Eve to the apple. I am responsible for the Original Sin, the curse of Knowledge, and the immorality of mankind. My charge on Earth is to tempt and manipulate people to my will, to corrupt their souls, and destroy them of any pure-heartedness they may hold. I seek nothing except corruption, and I have no heart to forgive with.” Crowley’s voice broke at the end of his speech and he looked at Aziraphale’s devastated face, eyes watery behind his sunglasses. He turned away sharply, inhaling as he strode towards the Bentley, fighting to keep himself together as he loaded the plants into the car with rather more force than necessary. It was quiet for what felt like a long time.

“Someone once told me that upbringing is everything, that we are both potentially good and potentially evil. Our decisions and influences make us who we are. Nature versus nurture. No-one is created good nor evil, not even divine beings. I’d like to tell this person that he was right.”

Crowley didn’t respond. He closed the boot of the Bentley and laid his hands down upon it, with his back to Aziraphale. He couldn’t bear to look at him. Aziraphale’s palm landed gently on his shoulder. 

“I always steadfastly believed that an angel’s nature and a demon’s nature was inherent and undeniable. That one was Good and the other Evil-“

“You don’t need to rub salt in the wound, angel, I-“

“I was _wrong_ , Crowley!” Aziraphale pulled him around to face his earnest gaze. “I was afraid. Your belief that we can choose who we want to be, it…it _terrifies_ me. If nothing is inherent about our natures, then how can I judge my own actions? How do I know if my choices are good or moral?”

Crowley laughed incredulously. “We’ve come full circle, angel. We had this exact conversation six thousand years ago, and we’ve been having it ever since. I think you’ve known since you gave Eve the sword that there’s no rulebook for Good or Evil, that Good and Evil don’t even _exist_ , at least not essentially.”

“I know, my dear. I’ve just been too afraid to admit it, and because of that I’ve hurt you terribly. I accused you of things you have never done nor would ever dream of doing. Things that you aren’t capable of but that originate from my own prejudices.” He raised a hand slowly to Crowley’s face, giving him time to pull away if he wanted. “My dear, I know I can’t ask you to forgive me because I have done nothing to earn your forgiveness, but will you consider letting me try?” 

Crowley trembled under Aziraphale’s touch, exhaling shakily into his palm as he turned to press his lips against it. Aziraphale reached up and took off Crowley’s glasses, exposing his bright, vulnerable yellow eyes. 

“Angel…” Crowley swallowed. He met Aziraphale’s eyes. “I love you.”

Aziraphale gave a shaky smile, blinking rapidly. “I know, my love. I know.”

**Author's Note:**

> I love comments ;)
> 
> you can find me on tumblr at @folieassdeux


End file.
